Feelings
by Shirleylocked
Summary: It was a rare occurance, but it was happening. John was sick. The poor doctor was having trouble breathing while he was standing up, laying down must make it nearly impossible, unless he has a trustworthy detective holding onto him. Sherlock would hold onto the doctor al night and all day, so long as he didn't have to discuss /feelings/. Johnlock, fluff.


**A/N: This is a one-shot based (somewhat) after an actual event. I was really sick on time and was having trouble breathing even when i was awake. I fell asleep and ending up getting stuck in a night terror and waking up unable to breathe for what seemed like hours. I'm not going to lie, i was terrified. I don't normally freak out, but i felt like someone was strangeling me and i was completely helpless. I only wich i had mySherlock to keep my lungs properly functioning.**

**Stil not able to work on my other stories...I will get to that when I have the chance (the mindset to do so).**

**Anyway, i don't own this, yadda yadda yadda...**

**Read and review, please and thank you. :)**

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Feelings

"You look horrible, John… Are you alright?" Sherlock wondered, glancing at John. His friend was paler than he had ever seen him and looked exceedingly tired.

"I feel like death…" John commented, his voice was at least half-way gone and was hardly more than a hoarse whisper. "It's been getting worse over the past few days." John coughed into his elbow. Just by the sound of the cough Sherlock could tell that his friend was truly unwell. He made a mental note that if John didn't start getting better he would have to send his friend to the hospital to have them check for pneumonia. "I'm off to bed…"

"Good, you need sleep." Sherlock nodded. "Try to keep your head and shoulders elevated." Sherlock advised. The poor doctor was having trouble breathing while he was standing up, laying down must make it nearly impossible. John smiled slightly at Sherlock, he went to the kitchen, taking two pills before he slipped off to his room.

Constantly, Sherlock could hear the poor doctor going into coughing fits. Even though Sherlock knew it was impossible, he wondered if he might find one of John's lungs on the floor in the morning. Sherlock listened for nearly an hour before the sounds in the room above stopped, signaling John's separation from consciousness. Sherlock smiled faintly, glad that the poor doctor was finally getting some sleep.

He sprawled himself out over the couch and steepled his hands against his chin. He closed his eyes, thinking. To anyone on the outside, his mind would seem to be moving at an unintelligible pace, but Sherlock felt quite at home, keeping up with the lightning fast inner workings of his mind. He allowed himself to fall into his mind, losing all perception of time.

An outcry pulled Sherlock from his thinking. _John, _he thought instantly. _Nightmares about Afghanistan, normal. _Sherlock thought. He was about to return to his thoughts when he noticed how harsh John's breathing was. He could hear the man gasping for air from where he sat. He instantly got up and nearly ran to John's room. He pushed open the door and looked at his friend.

John had obviously tried to keep his torso elevated, judging by the placement of his pillows, but his nightmare had stirred him and he had ended up lying flat on the bed. Sherlock knew that that was the cause of John's inability to breathe properly. The doctor was still twisting in the sheets, as if he were trying to fight someone off of him. It took a second for Sherlock to realize that the room was far too quiet—John had stopped breathing.

Sherlock knew that it wasn't uncommon for people to stop breathing in their sleep, but he was instantly worried about John. He ran to his friend's side and shook his shoulder. "John! John, you have to wake up!" Sherlock insisted. The doctor took a deep, crackling breath and opened his eyes before he promptly began coughing his other lung out into his elbow. Sherlock sat next to his friend and ran his hand up and down his back soothingly, knowing exactly where to rub to help control the violent coughing fit.

"So-rry, Sherlock." John said; his coughing had subsided, except for one or two that lingered on intterupting his speech.

"It's alright, John." Sherlock promised, continuing to massage his friend's back gently.

"I don't mean to keep you up." John whispered hoarsely. "You shouldn't be here, you might get sick too."

"I'll be fine, John." Sherlock stated, moving so that his back was against the headboard of the bed. "You _will_ be going to the hospital tomorrow, don't you dare argue either." Sherlock warned.

"Didn't plan on it…" John said. "What—what are you doing?" John wondered.

"You can't possibly go back to sleep on those idiotic pillows. Probability is you will whisk them away again and you won't be able to breathe again. I really don't want to take that chance, I'd be lost without my blogger." Sherlock stated, pulling John's back flush against his chest.

"Sherlock—" John started to protest, but knew Sherlock's logic had beaten him. He was touched by the concern Sherlock showed, but he would never speak of it. They both acted like that, whenever there was a hint of concern for each other, they simply let it be, never talking about it—only excepting it. Never did they bother delving into _feelings. _"Right…" John said quietly, he turned his head to the side, resting it against Sherlock's shoulder before attempting to fall back to sleep…

888

John woke up with Sherlock's hands wrapped around his middle, his own hands intertwined with the genius'. He couldn't bring himself to blush at how close he was to his flatmate, he had gotten the best night of sleep he had ever had in his life, curled up against Sherlock. He still felt like hell, but he was almost glad he was sick now that he was this close to Sherlock. "You never told me that you played piano. Sherlock commented, lifting John's hand and turning it slightly to examine it.

"You never asked." John said, his voice could manage no more than a whisper. He didn't bother to ask how Sherlock knew about the piano. Sherlock grabbed his wrist and let John's hand hang in the air.

"The curve of your fingers is a tell-tale sign. They instantly relax into playing position." Sherlock observed, resting his chin on John's shoulder.

"How long did I play for then?" John asked, in no hurry to move.

"I'd say two years under a tutor, but then you self taught yourself for at least four more years after that, through to the end of school. You didn't own a piano so you used the one at your school. You dropped the art in Uni, but you still remember and I'm sure you could still play if I put you in front of the keys."

"I liked playing… It was nice." John sighed, almost hoping he could go back to sleep in his flatmate's arms.

"I know the feeling…violin…" Sherlock shrugged. "No going back to sleep on me, John. You need to see a doctor."

"I am a doctor." John replied, really wishing Sherlock would let him sleep.

"John…" Sherlock warned flatly.

"Right then…" John slowly got up, nearly falling over when his sight went blurry. He turned after his vision cleared to look at Sherlock. "Sherlock…that was…good." John told him, slowly. Sherlock smiled slightly.

"Thank you. Right then, if you hurry up and get ready I'll let you sleep on my shoulder on the way there." Sherlock offered, getting up and walking out of John's room. Never once did they talk about _feelings_…but they knew that they were there.

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**Let's face it, we all know the feelings are there.**

**Send some love my way?**

**:)**


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